From American Prodigy to Japanese Miracle
by Tressa
Summary: Ryoma Echizen contemplates the reasons why his family is moving to Japan. Possible AU.


Title: From American Prodigy to Japanese Miracle

Author: Tressa

Rating: K+

Summary: Ryoma Echizen in the time before he came to Seigaku.

**Authors note: Possible AU, simply because I don't know exactly what happened before Ryoma came to Japan. There some vague descriptions here for things that I cannot for the life of me work out- such as the year difference between American and Japanese schools. Hopefully there won't be a lot of nitpicking about a lot of the details. Thanks! **

"We're going to what?" Ryoma Echizen blinked a couple times and admitted to himself that he was thoroughly confused at the words that left his father's mouth. Dropping his fork, he ignored the tomato that rolled off his plate onto the floor.

"That's right," his father gloated, not wiping the smirk off his face. "We're moving."

"You could be a little more sensitive," his mother chastised him. "This can't be easy for him to hear. And Ryoma dear, your tomato is on the floor."

Flicking his gaze between his parents, he slowly picked up his fork and began to stab at his salad, ignoring the lone fruit on the floor. "Why are we moving?" he asked, a bit hesitant. His whole life he had known California and New York. Home was now New York. His life was here. It wasn't like he had any friends that he would be heartbroken over leaving, but still . . . The knowledge that he was moving away from the place he had known his entire life was a little unnerving. "_Where_ are we moving?"

"Japan!" his father sang, getting up his chair and dancing happily around the room. "Japan. Tokyo. You'll love it."

Japan? "Why are we moving to Japan?" It was his parents' homeland, he knew, but he never had anticipated them wanting to move back. He had visited enough times that he was mostly familiar with Tokyo and the surrounding regions, but visiting Tokyo and living in Tokyo were two different things.

"We'll be speaking Japanese in the house from now on," his father continued, ignoring his question. "Get you used to speaking it 24/7."

"I already speak Japanese with you 24/7, baka oyaji," he grumbled. "I only speak English with kaa-san. When you're not around. And you still haven't answered my question. Why are we moving to Japan?"

"Dear, stop teasing him and tell him." His mother could sound both frustrated and loving at that same time.

"Fine." Sitting down, his father scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and pointed it at his son. "We're going so you can play tennis."

The next day at school was not going to be a productive one. Getting off the bus, his racket case banging against the side of the his backpack, his thoughts trailed back to the conversation the night before. They were moving to Japan. So he could play tennis. He frowned as he entered the school and made his way to his locker. It made some twisted sense, after all, there wasn't anybody here who was a challenge. He had already won four Junior National Championships and it didn't look as though there was anyone interesting coming up to the national level.

But why Japan? After the odd one line explanation, his father had drifted away from the tennis topic and began discussing all the things they would have to do. The only question he had answered from Ryoma was when they were leaving. He scoffed as he switched out his textbooks in his locker and put his racket inside. Baka oyaji said they were leaving as soon as possible. Something about school years in Japan starting early. He didn't know how he would transfer. Removing the worn Fila hat and placing it in his locker, he then made his way to his American History class.

Sitting in his class, he briefly wondered if he'd have to take a Japanese history class. If he did, then it would more than likely be a disaster. He didn't know anything about Japanese history. A tug on his shirt turned his attention from his thoughts to the boy sitting in the desk next to him.

"You alright, Ryoma?" Will Jones was a boy he could stand to be around. In fact, Will was probably the closest thing Ryoma could claim as a friend. Glancing at him, he began to pull out the necessary items for his class.

"I'm fine," he muttered in response, scribbling on his history notes. Will didn't need to know about his move. It would lead to too many questions. "Its nothing."

The other thing he liked about Will was that when he indicated that he didn't want to talk about something, the other boy didn't make him talk about it. As usual, Will just smiled and nodded, before asking him if he was ready for the PE class that day.

The rest of his morning classes were as anti-climatic as usual. He aced his science test and was in the process of shoving it in his backpack as he left the classroom when a one of the larger boys in his grade came and shoved him against the wall.

"Heh." The other boy, Ryan, scoffed at the significantly smaller Ryoma. "See you in PE, brat."

Glaring at the older boy, Ryoma turned up his nose and smirked. "Whatever. Mada mada dane."

The great thing, he thought as he watched Ryan's face grow red with anger and frustration, about being bilingual, was that you could say something and there was a good chance that nobody would understand you. Especially if said language was something like Japanese.

Calmly, he knelt on the ground and began picking up his scattered supplies before other people began trampling over it. This was typical. Ryan Duffy. Strong and of average intelligence, he was not the typical bully. Surprisingly, he did very well in his math class, at least from what Ryoma heard from others. The bully thing, he reasoned, was probably to cover up his intelligence. He watched as some other helpless soul was pushed out of his way. And he managed to pull it off quite well.

As he entered the cafeteria, he quickly surveyed the room, looking for somewhere to eat. He typically wanted to find a place that was away from the rest of the student population, but since lunch was closed, he usually found himself crammed at a table with Will and his friends.

Today was not a day that he wanted to be with anyone.

Still, he found himself sitting on the edge of a table with Will and his friends. He watched as they pulled out their lunch bags or set down their trays. He reached in his bag to remove his lunch and instead hit something hard. He felt around, searching for the paper bag that his mother normally packed his lunch. He didn't find it. What he did find, though, was a rectangular box. All it took was one glance to recognize what it was.

"Bento?" Opening it up, he found a traditional Japanese lunch, complete with chopsticks. While their family regularly had Japanese meals at least half the time for dinner, his lunches were typically American. Guess his mom was trying to ease him into the Japanese way of life.

"Woah." Blinking, Ryoma found the face of one of Will's friends in his view as the other boy bent over the table to peer at his lunch. "What's that?"

Fighting back the blush that was threatening to break, he eased off the lid and stared at the omigiri, rice, and other typical items. Where in the world did she get time to make all of this? Bending over his lunch, he picked up the chopsticks with practiced ease and began picking at his lunch. "It's my lunch," he muttered before looking at the boy's food. It was some green mush that didn't at all look appetizing. "What's yours?" he asked, gesturing with the chopsticks.

The boy, Lawrence, he recalled, scrunched up his nose. "Some healthy junk my mom packed. I don't know why she insists on eating healthy all the time."

"At least Ryoma's looks edible," Will cut in, smiling in his direction. "It smells good as well."

Turning back to his lunch, he plucked up some rice and ate it, chewing on it slowly. He didn't mind Japanese food. It was a lot better then most American foods. But why did his mom insist on giving him lunch now?

Tuning out the others' conversation, he recalled his father's reasoning for leaving. _Baka oyaji_, he cursed his father silently. _Just telling me its for tennis. There has to be something more._

POT

PE was uneventful. They had started their tennis unit, and the kids in his class, for the most part, had no idea how to hold a racket properly, much less swing one. Gripping one of his extras, not his match racket, tightly, he waited patiently as his teacher explained the basics again. Some of the kids weren't paying attention, and were swinging the rackets like baseball bats. Others were swinging it like a golf club. Some were toeing the frame with scuffed and dirtied gym shoes while others paid attention to teacher.

"You bored?"

The slightly teasing voice caught his attention. It was Will again. His somewhat friend was cradling the racket he had snagged and was smiling at him. "You look bored," he repeated.

"Che," he scoffed, unsure of how to answer. There were people in the school who knew he played tennis. Most people knew he played, few actually knew his level of expertise. Will was one of them. After all, he had to know why he was picking up his homework when he missed school for matches.

When he didn't answer, Will shrugged and turned his attention back to the teacher. It looked like he was again showing them the western grip, though it was difficult to see from behind the other people in class. After a few more minutes of explanation, the teacher then waved to the courts. "Okay. I want everyone to pair off. We've been working on bouncing the ball on the racket head for sometime now. I want you and your partner to hit the ball back and forth between the two of you. Make sure it bounces at least once." He eyed a couple to the students. "And this isn't baseball. Don't try hitting it out of school grounds. You do and your rackets will be confiscated and you'll receive a zero for the day."

There were whines from some, while others began to pick partners. Yawning, Ryoma simply looked up at the sky, his mind returning to his current predicament. Japan. He still wanted to know what was so great about Japanese tennis that would require them to move half way around the world.

Maybe his father wanted to go back to Japan. Maybe he just missed it too much. Which was reasonable. He'd been away for so long. His mom more so. But what about him? Did they think he wasn't going to miss America? Sure, he hadn't really had a challenge for while, but did they even stop and think about what he thought?

"Baka oyaji," he muttered, unaware of a sudden companion.

"What was that?" Blinking, he looked up to see his teacher standing in front of him. Beside him was another kid, who's name escaped him at the moment.

"Nothing," he mumbled. "Is this my partner?"

"Yes." The teacher eyed him before smiling a bit. "Do you want to do this?'

Wide gold eyes blinked before shrugging. "Sure. I have to, don't I?"

The teacher shrugged casually. "Well, not everyone is clueless to who you are, Ryoma. Where do you think I get the workouts for classes?"

Ryoma's mouth must have been hanging open because the teacher chuckled. "Jason, why don't go over there with Eli and Frank? Tell them I told you guys to work as a group of three."

The boy, Jason, looked at them with a confused look before taking off toward the other two boys. "Monthly Pro Tennis gives great tips on how to teach beginners tennis," the teacher explained once the boy was out of earshot. "I don't know what your skill level is, but I'm guessing if you're a national champion like the articles stated, then these beginners' lessons probably aren't beneficial to you." He pointed at one of the walls of the school. "You can hit balls against the side of the school, if you'd like. Or you can keep doing the drills."

He looked at the brick that lined the school, then at the bucket of tennis balls. Some of them had probably lost most of the fuzz. And he really didn't want to have everyone staring at him. At the same time, he didn't want to have to do drills either. "I'll hit balls against the wall," he muttered. Maybe he could work with his right hand. Despite being ambidextrous, his right hand was still significantly weaker than his left.

"Go for it," the teacher said, and for some reason, he thought he looked slightly relieved that he didn't have Ryoma doing drills. After picking through the balls and finding the one that was in the most decent condition, he went to a secluded area and began to work his right hand.

As he gradually fell into the rhythm, his mind drifted to the smaller country they were moving to. He remembered the last time they had visited. He recalled disliking the train; he had thought the subways in New York were bad. After a few brief trips by the commuter rail in Tokyo, though, the New York subways seemed spacious. When they finally emerged in the shopping district, he was so overwhelmed with several strong smells of cologne, perfume, and sweat, he was ready to swear off public transportation.

The shopping district itself wasn't too bad, he thought as he watched the mediocre ball make contact with the racket. It had vaguely resembled downtown New York.

What got to him, though, was the undeniable lack of English. Yes, they spoke Japanese at home. Yes, there was some English present in Tokyo. But it wasn't the same. Science was his favorite subject in school, but there as no denying that he would feel the lack of English.

Why were they moving to Japan? The question continued to plague him. His stupid dad wasn't being any help. His mother was only telling him it would be the best. Nobody was giving him a straight answer. He winced as he missed the sweet spot of the racket and the ball missed his intended target.

It had to be more than tennis.

POT

The time to leave came much to quick for his liking and before he knew it, he had to clear the rest of his stuff out of his locker. They were leaving at the end of the week in order to get settled and figure out what they were supposed to do with his schooling. Wasn't that something that his old man even considered? If it wasn't for his mom, he was pretty sure he'd have to repeat the sixth grade. His dad, while not an idiot, would forget something like that.

Before he even reached his locker, though, he spotted someone waiting. The shock of blond hair gave away who it was, but that wasn't say he wasn't surprised to find Will waiting by his locker.

"Why are you here?" he asked, sparing any small talk.

"I told my mom you were leaving," he said politely. "I though I'd get you a going away present."

"Huh?" This stopped Ryoma in his tracks. So far, all he received was indifference from others when they found out he was moving. Except from the tennis team. As a seventh grader, he'd be eligible to play. Half were sad they'd be losing an excellent player. The others called him a traitor. He told them if they were so reliant on him for a win, they were crazy. He wasn't some support beam. But nobody else bothered to acknowledge him leaving. It didn't bother him, of course, but still . . .

He remembered Will's face when he finally told the other boy he was moving. Will looked shocked for a second, then a bit sad. Ryoma didn't understand why. It wasn't like they were particularly close. They did talk, well, Will did the talking. And got his homework for him when he had matches. That was it.

"I hope that's okay," he heard Will say slowly, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Yeah," he managed. "It's okay.

"It's too bad your leaving," the other boy continued, handing him a bag. "I hope you enjoy Japan and your new school. Don't forget about us here in the United States." With that, William Jones, the closest thing Ryoma could claim as a friend, took off down the hall

It wasn't till later that night, as he was packing his last suitcase, did he finally open the goodbye gift bag. The first item he pulled out was a small packaged American flag, with a small note attached saying _Remember, don't let the flag touch the ground!_

The next items were a folder and notebook from their school store, the school emblem embossed on the front. Pencils and pens with American flags were next. Lastly, a t-shirt with I Love NY, with a big red heart replacing the word Love. He stared at it, then at the bag, which had New York City, NY sewn on it. It was a nice bag, he had to admit.

"My, what's this?"

Looking up, he saw his mother in the doorway, admiring his things a small smile. He looked down at his stash. "A present. From someone at school."

"Well, that was nice of them," she exclaimed. "They really want you to remember America." She picked up the shirt. "And New York."

"It's better then the stupid shirt oyaji bought me when we left L.A.," he grumbled, stuffing the items back in the bag to put into his carry-on. That shirt was embarrassing.

"Well, I got rid of it," his mother said gently. They looked around his barren room. The last few blankets and pillows were out, along with an empty box to pack them in. His trophies and medals, along with his extra clothing and other personal items had been sent ahead of them.

"Does oyaji know what he's doing?" he finally asked, voicing his small concern. It had been niggling in the back of his mind. Maybe his dad had finally cracked. Maybe his tennis deprived brain had just decided to stop functioning. He tried to think of any reason but couldn't come up with anything.

Sighing, his mother ruffled his hair. "Your father is doing what he feels is best for you." She gave him a big smile he guessed was supposed to be reassuring before she gave him a tight hug. "And I, for once, agree with his crazy antics." She took his chin in her hand and tilted it up to look at her. While he had doubts about his father's sanity, he knew he wouldn't do anything to damage his son. Maybe. His mother he could trust. And the look she was giving him was the same one on her face when they moved from Los Angeles. "I have a good feeling about this, Ryoma. About Japan. About Tokyo." She smiled again. "Seishun Gakuen is supposed to have a great tennis team."

He snorted. "Probably all mada mada." Still, new opponents, fresh opponents were good. One step closer to beating his father.

"Make sure your things are packed up," she finally said, pressing a kiss to his head. "We'll pack the last of blankets and pillows tomorrow morning to take on the plane with us." With that, she left.

Karupin let out a lazy _rawl_ before walking over to where his bed used to be. Grabbing the blankets and his pillow, he changed into his pyjamas and lay down on the air mattress. Getting as comfortable as possible, he snuggled down for the evening, his cat tucked in beside him.

"Night, Karupin."

The next morning, they ate a quick breakfast, much to his dismay. Not that he didn't mind restaurants, but if he was going to be on a plane, he would've liked something a little less fast food like. They cleaned up the rest of the house, then waited for the cab outside the apartment building. With Karupin in his carrier and his bags beside him, Ryoma turned and took one last look at their apartment before the cab arrived and took them to the airport.

The flight was long, a lot longer then he had remembered. It was definitely longer than when they moved from California to New York. Now, he was cramped, hungry and his idiot father wouldn't stop flirting with the airline attendant.

Finally, they arrived. It was hot and humid. There was a distinct difference in the weather, he noticed. Finding out that their new house wasn't air conditioned was even worse. When they arrived at the house, his father dropped the bags inside the house before taking off, whistling as he made his way down the walk way. Confused, but not too concerned, he opened the door.

"Ryoma-san!" A female voice greeted him as he entered the house. Setting down his bags, he trudged into the kitchen. Unpacking a large bag of groceries was a tall, dark haired woman. Her smile was friendly and she looked happy to see him. At first he couldn't remember who she was, only that she was his cousin. Her name, though, didn't register in his mind. Carefully, he looked around, taking in the kitchen. At least that looked the same.

"Nanako-chan." His mother's voice, tired, sounded behind him. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Obaa-san!" Nanako, he remembered her name now, bowed before giving his mother a quick hug and taking her bag from her. "You must be exhausted. Please sit down. I'll make you some tea."

As Ryoma watched as his cousin bustled around the kitchen, he realized that his life was in for some big changes. It was going to be interesting having one more person around the house.

"Ryoma, dear, remove your shoes when you're in the house." Glancing down, he realized he still had his shoes on.

"Ryoma-san," Nanako chided. "Shoes at the front door, please."

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Forgot." Yawning, he kicked off his shoes off the entrance before plodding back in. It was only then he realized that his father still hadn't come back from wherever he had taken off to. "Where's oyaji?"

"Your father had to see someone about his responsibilities while we're here," his mother explained, after accepting a steaming cup of tea.

"Ryoma-san," Nanako said, reaching into the fridge. "I remembered this was your favorite drink."

To his surprise, she pulled out a can of grape flovered Ponta. "Arigatou," he thanked her, slowly accepting the drink. As his mother and Nanako chatted, he stared down at the can. The can stared back him, most everything but Ponta was in thick Japanese characters. He swallowed before popping the can open with a _hiss_. That's when he realized, as he heard his mother laugh, that he hadn't heard one word of English from either one of his parents since they arrived. This was it. This wasn't a vacation. This was Japan. This was home.

A loud meow interrupted his thoughts, causing him to jump before realizing where it was coming from. "Karupin!" He could hit himself with a twist serve for forgetting his pretty kitty. Placing the can down on the counter, he hurried to the front. The cat carrier rattled as Karupin clawed to get someone's attention. Kneeling beside the carrier, he unlatched the cage before hurrying to remove a can of cat food from his bag. Fancy Feast. In English. Popping open the can, he returned to the cat carrier to find Karupin still inside.

"Karupin?"

His cat poked it's nose out of the carrier, whiskers flickering. Then he mewed. Was his cat that afraid to come out? Maybe he didn't recognize anything and he wasn't sure. He frowned, trying think of where he had seen that behavior before. Then it clicked. Their move from California.

His cat was just testing out new territory.

Reaching inside the carrier, he pulled the cat out and took him and cat food outside. No sense in letting Karupin wonder. Settling himself on the porch, he let his cat wander around the yard, always keeping the can of food close.

"Daijoubu, kitto ok," he said softly as Karupin came to eat, soft, fluffy tail brushing against his arm. "It'll be okay."

_Later in the month_

He had gotten lost. That braided girl on the train had given him bad directions and he had to have to default. His first real match in the country and he had to default. Granted, the braided girl had come and apologize when they were interrupted by some bozos from the train he had taken. The same ones who didn't know the difference between a western grip and eastern grip. They challenged him to a match.

Although not official, it would be a great test of his abilities. Besides, it was like he told the braided girl. No sense in going home without playing a match. As he positioned himself on the other side of the court, he had to wonder what he was going to get out of this. These guys were the guys who didn't know the difference between eastern and western grip. But there were older. There might have been some hope.

A few minutes later, he found out his answer. He was sorely disappointed. He beat the guy 6-2, with his right hand. "Mada mada dane," he said, walking off the court.

This was stupid, he thought as he left. The opponents here were no different from the players in the States. They all lacked serious talent and didn't push him. Getting back on the train, he made up his mind to tell his dad to take him back. It was stupid.

It was only a short time later, though, that he found himself at Seishun Gakuen. With loudmouth amateurs, inexperienced seventh graders, and less then stellar club members, he again began to question the sanity of his dad. Why in the world were they here?

His answer came later in a match against someone named Kaidou Karou. The buggy whip shot that he performed shocked him when he first saw it. And their match later pushed him more than he had thought.

And it was at that point he knew. Seigaku would be an interesting school. With interesting players. Finally, some challenging opponents.

Here, he could reach his ultimate goal - beating his oyaji and shutting him up for good.

He smiled, scaring the cat-like upperclassman next to him and causing the teams so-called genius to chuckle. He could hardly wait.


End file.
